


Astronomy in Reverse

by WendyBird



Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Fluff, M/M, One Shot, Smut, Somehow both established relationship and first time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:34:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27906805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WendyBird/pseuds/WendyBird
Summary: A short, sweet telling of their first night together after Hugh's resurrection and return to Paul.
Relationships: Hugh Culber/Paul Stamets
Comments: 12
Kudos: 47





	Astronomy in Reverse

_I was a million little pieces_

_‘Til you pulled me into focus_

_Astronomy in reverse_

_In was me who was discovered_

_-_ **Sleeping at Last, _Venus_**

Hugh has to relearn touch. How to reach out, how to hold, how to be held. 

It’s strange. His brain remembers the texture of Paul’s hair under his fingers, but his hand does not. He has to go slowly—so slowly—focusing on one finger at a time, on the soft roots, the slight crunch of hair product on the ends, the feather light brush of his palm over the nape of Paul’s neck.

Paul’s breath in his ear—he flinches slightly as he adjusts to the sensation: familiar, treasured, but entirely novel. There’s a hint of his name on the breath, a question, and Paul’s hands haven’t moved from his sides.

He’s asking permission. 

Hugh leans in, presses their lips together, and Paul makes an appreciative noise. Hugh can feel more than see the way his brows knit together briefly, the way his lips tug into a sideways smile, all these tics he knows he knows he _knows_ , and he lets his fingers run over Paul’s face, feel the reality of him, feel the expression he sees in his head. 

“I’m here,” Paul says. 

Hugh pulls his head forward, kisses his forehead, his eyebrow, his cheek.

“Me too,” he says, and rests his forehead against Paul’s.

Paul’s hands rise slowly, settling against Hugh’s arms cautiously, ready to spring away if they feel resistance. But this slow, Hugh has time to pair the memory with the reality, to feel the drag of calluses, the light scrape of a nail, the pressure of his thumb against Hugh’s bicep, a spot he always traced idly when they held each other ( _in a past life_ ).

Hugh stays still, lets the first wave of discomfort subside, the nagging sense that he should know this, he should know _how_ —he lets these thoughts slide through him, clatter to the floor, lets Paul’s hands soothe them away. He is not the same, they are not the same, but they are choosing this, _he_ is choosing this, and that’s enough.

“Is this okay?” Paul asks, one arm slipping around Hugh’s waist, his fingers splayed against Hugh’s lower back.

Hugh nods, just once, and he moves to kiss Paul again. The dim lights of the cabin—Paul’s cabin ( _their cabin_ )—let him see just enough. The glitter of Paul’s eyes searching his face, the gold halo of light caught in his hair, the gentle spill of it across his pale shoulder.

He touches, and he’s touched, and for the first time in a long time, he doesn’t feel like a ghost.

§

_Here, here, here._

Paul’s heartbeat is restless, eager and uncertain all at once. His skin is electric with the nearness of Hugh, how solid and warm and _alive_ —it’s still so much, so fragile. Any wrong move could shatter him. 

Losing Hugh once set him adrift. He could function, but he had no sense of purpose. Then getting him back, nearly losing him a whole different way? His heart aches at the rarity, the beauty of this second chance. 

_Careful_ , he tells his hands as they trace Hugh’s shape against him.

“I won’t break,” Hugh laughs, and the flickering smile on his lips is so sweet Paul can feel it in his teeth. 

He lets his lips slide over the shell of Hugh’s ear, feels him shudder and press closer, in a way he hasn’t done since their first few months together. 

“Not risking it,” Paul says. His lips move lower, kissing down Hugh’s neck, into the dip of his collarbone, and when Hugh’s hand tightens in his hair Paul rests his cheek against his chest, listening to the thrum of this new heart— _here. Here_.

“Paul.” It’s not a question, it’s just a sound. Grounding. Hugh’s hands run down Paul’s back, Hugh’s chest rises and falls with his breath. “Sweetheart.”

The tears are in his eyes so suddenly that Paul can’t stop them. Hugh feels them against the bare skin of his chest, pulls Paul’s head up to face him, brushes his fingers across his cheeks to sweep them away.

“Sweetheart,” he says again, and he kisses him slow and soft and deep. Paul forgets, crowds into his space, but Hugh lets him, opening his arms and pulling him closer, cradling him, caressing him.

 _I love you_ , Paul says with his lips, his hands. _I love you_ , he says with his body and breath. 

“I love you,” he says with his mouth and his whole heart.

“I know,” says Hugh, and kisses him again.

§

The bedsheets are cool against his back, Paul warm on top of him, one knee between his legs, one hand working him. Hugh is lost in an onslaught, nerves firing in rapid succession, and something— _ah_ —something he wasn’t sure he’d ever feel again, that slow build in his chest as he looks at Paul, that rising wave of want and hope and contentment and admiration. 

There’s no real rhythm to Paul’s movements, not yet—giving him time to decide if this is too much. And in some ways, it is. It’s overwhelming to both body and brain, but Hugh is so tired of feeling nothing at all.

He is three selves: a body that died, a mind that lost itself, and a new being, born of some quantum entanglement he can’t make himself understand. All of them have been hurt, but every version found itself here—in Paul’s arms, with Paul’s hands trying to fix him, Paul’s whispers trying to call him back.

“Hugh?” Paul’s voice breaks a little on his name. 

“Still here,” says Hugh. There’s a tear at the corner of his eye, and he wipes it away. “Don’t stop.”

Paul’s left cheek dimples in a small smile, and Hugh remembers the thrill of that, of being the only one for so long who saw this softness in his prickly, overbearing, mad scientist of a boyfriend.

“You’re beautiful, you know that?” 

Paul’s grip on him tightens a little, enough to make his next breath a moan.

“You don’t need to butter me up,” he says. “You’ve already got me in bed.”

Hugh rolls his eyes, laughing in spite of himself. “You’re terrible.”

“That’s more like it.”

His hand moves faster now, more earnest, and Paul kisses his way down Hugh’s chest to meet it.

His raised eyebrow is a question, and Hugh nods, tension in his stomach, in his thighs. 

The first touch of Paul’s mouth on him is a revelation. He doesn’t know what to call the noise he makes, but that dimple appears in Paul’s cheek again, pleased and prideful.

They lose their hesitation, repeating old rituals. Paul sucks him until he’s close, lets him pull him away, guide him down so Hugh can return the favor. His muscles need time to adjust, to remember, and Hugh is frustrated, but Paul shushes him, strokes a thumb against his jaw.

“It’s perfect. You’re perfect,” he says over and over, a chant to ward against Hugh’s doubt. 

They are moving closer to a moment, to something Hugh is anticipating with equal parts dread and excitement. Paul sees it in his eyes when he pulls off, pressing a wet kiss to Paul’s pale, trembling thigh.

But Paul only smiles. “Anything,” he says. “Anything or nothing. It’s fine.”

Hugh nods, leans up between his legs to kiss him. “Like this?” he asks, and rocks against him. 

“Yes,” Paul says. “Yeah, please.” The lube is where they’ve always kept it—the right bedside drawer (Hugh’s drawer)—and Paul retrieves it quickly. 

Hugh takes his time, enjoying the intimacy of it, his fingers circling and stretching. Paul doesn’t need this level of preparation, not anymore, but it’s a ceremony, a rite they are enacting, and he lets Hugh take him apart without question or complaint. 

Hugh thanks him with languid, easy strokes, kissing his knee occasionally. 

Finally, Hugh feels settled. His body aches for the contact, for the heat and press of it, but he pauses again as he positions himself between Paul’s legs.

Their eyes meet, and Paul’s smile is a minuscule and radiant sun.

Hugh pushes forward. 

_This._

Paul arches underneath him, and Hugh makes a broken sound. He remembers this first moment was always his favorite ( _well, maybe second favorite_ ), the flutter of Paul’s eyelids, the flush rising under his pink skin, the closeness of him. 

“ _Oh_ ,” he says, and the word is drawn out, half prayer and half curse.

Paul’s legs wrap around him, and he bends forward, chest against chest and mouth over Paul’s mouth. 

“Missed you,” Paul says, and it’s almost a sob, his breath catching around the pleasure and the heaviness of it all. “Missed you so—much.”

“Sweetheart,” Hugh murmurs. “God, I love you.”

Paul only nods and kisses him harder, and Hugh moves, bringing them together again and again, in every way he knows how.

§

In the aftermath of tangled sheets, they are curled around each other. Paul feels—for the first time in ages—happy.

He knows he’s lucky, maybe luckier than anyone has ever been. Hugh’s eyes are closed, his breathing slow and even, but he’s not asleep yet. Paul doesn’t want to look away from him.

“Stop staring,” Hugh says softly. 

“No.”

Hugh smiles. “If you’re still awake enough to annoy me, maybe I didn’t do my job very well.”

“You know perfectly well,” Paul snorts, “I can annoy you even in my sleep.”

“True.” Hugh opens his eyes. The faint cabin light pools in the cup of his ear, the crook of his elbow, the rounded swell of his buttocks. How did Paul ever take him for granted?

“Whatever you’re thinking,” Hugh says, “stop.”

Paul tries to look offended, but it’s half hearted. “I wasn’t—”

“You’re beating yourself up about something, and I won’t have it.” Hugh lays one palm against Paul’s chest. “We both did things wrong. We’ll do things wrong again. That’s not what matters.”

Paul snorts again. “Death made you wise.”

“I’ve always been wise,” Hugh says airily, then, more seriously: “What matters is we come back to this. Every time.”

“Every time,” Paul echoes, and takes Hugh’s palm from his chest so he can kiss it. “It’s always you. It’s always been you.”

Hugh lets his hand slide from Paul’s lips up along his jaw until it rests against his neck. 

“Always you,” he affirms. His voice shakes a little, and Paul can see the faint glimmer of tears in his eyes. He leans forward to kiss Hugh’s forehead, to gather him impossibly closer. 

The happiness in his heart spills over, and he follows it into sleep.

**FIN**


End file.
